There were very young children at the museum yesterday. I couldn’t help noticing them.
The Greek and I celebrated our wedding anniversary by taking a weekday off and going to the Picasso And American Art exhibit at SFMOMA. Fascinating to observe how different artists responded to Picasso’s genius.
In 1939, Picasso had his first big show in the states. Young emerging artists such as Pollock and Louise Bourgeois attended the exhibit and fell into tortured, self-conscious artist mode. Bourgeois stopped painting for a month. Pollock bought a book on Picasso and later threw it against a wall in a fit of rage, screaming, "That guy thought of everything!" Picasso single-handedly shattered their dreams.
Early emulation seems to have followed two distinct tracks – some, like Ashile Gorky, spent a lifetime copying Picasso’s work; others were set free within themselves and what they tapped there had a profound integrity. There’s a small, vibrant piece by Lee Krassner that, however clearly inspired by The Pic, is entirely her own. And is there a better, more original painting on earth than De Kooning’s Woman And Bicycle? As of yesterday, I can assure you, it must be witnessed in person; no reproduction captures it.
But perhaps I spent the longest time standing in front of Pollock. In fact, I circled back to his stuff twice.
Flashback: A long weekend trip to New York City with my family when I was six. We went to the Guggenheim. I remember thinking – knowing, really – that the art there mattered, that these works captured something deep and important, and I was interested in whatever that was. I asked many questions. Too many, probably. At one point, we were staring at a large canvas of what seemed like paint splatters. What was this? My mother said, “It’s a Jackson Pollock,” in a way that made his name count. I asked more questions. She responded to my six-year-old self, “Perhaps you need to just take time with it. Why don’t you sit over there and study it?”
(For all I know, this was the day it started: “Be quiet. Pay attention. Figure it out.” – This was Mom’s most constant directive throughout the eighteen years I spent under her daily guidance.)
As I stood in front of Pollock yesterday, I think I recognized what must have jarred me when I was six. How did Pollock manage to do that? To reach down, tap the deepest reservoir of energy in his soul and manage to bring it up, up, up through his body, down his arms and out his hands onto his canvas. There’s nothing random about those works. They are revelatory blueprints. As true as a thing gets.
In fact, in SFMOMA’s permanent collection, there is an earlier Pollock that seems to peel back the process in his quest. At the bottom is a slightly abstract creature – crocodile?… alligator? – surrounded in black. At the top there are smaller, mythical/primal creatures – like those anthropomorphic birdmen in petroglyphs. In between, there is an organized pattern of splatters. It’s as if the "monster" down low was still waiting for him, the upper mythical creatures were holding a place for some future holy thing, and the paint between was still a process of too much thinking. Too much for Pollock, that is. To what extent did the frustration of , "That guy thought of everything!" free Pollock to give up thinking altogether and work straight from the deep without it?
Which reminds me of my favorite line from the movie –
“You’ve done it, Pollock. You’ve cracked it wide open." - Lee Krassner
So there I was yesterday, as an adult and glad of the life experience that allowed me to consciously recognize what was in front of me. As for those who still dismiss the splatters, I decided yesterday they are either fearful or not fully alive, and too bad for them.
Throughout the exhibit, I kept finding myself standing next to very young children, who – hallelujah - had been brought to a sophisticated museum show.
There was the infant carried high on the shoulder of her father, whose ears were plugged into the museum’s audio tour. The tiny girl would babble and coo, and the father would periodically respond by repeating a narration line from his headset
"Though Picasso never set foot in America, the protean artist had a profound impact..."
."..Weber was the first to…"
"...devouring father..."
There was a little boy, I’d guess four. His father would stop in front of certain works with him and - not saying a word, explaining nothing – would point to a seeming body part in the work, then touch that body part on the boy. He ran his finger along in the air just off the ridge of a nose, then gently ran the same finger down the boy’s nose. The boy reached up to stroke his own nose. The father then put his index and middle fingers out toward the nostrils, then fit those two fingers to the boy’s. Throughout, the little boy had a serious, accepting face. The two of them, working together, seemed to be putting the artworks into the boy’s body.
You just never know with kids – how such early experiences might “go in” … to rise again later.
At the very least, a memory might rise and make one grateful to be more than young.
Thanks, Mom.
UPDATE: Oh, here- Splatter away!
